


From the Daylight in Chains

by Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, No Healing Cock, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Recovery, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile/pseuds/Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile
Summary: Furiosa hasn't had a cock in her since Immortan Joe tried to breed her and found her lacking.Or, how Furiosa realizes that she's really not alright and goes about fixing that. Via sexual experimentation.
Relationships: Furiosa/Max Rockatansky
Comments: 12
Kudos: 101





	From the Daylight in Chains

**Author's Note:**

> Title from She Rides by Danzig. I was listening to various and sundry Danzig songs and also some off Chaos and the Calm by James Bay while writing the sex scenes, which is a truly weird mix of genres that might not even reflect the mood of this fic. 
> 
> There's a sad dearth of friend sex fic without any pining or secretly harbored feelings. Two people who care about each other. That's all. [Another Working Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/114385) by mswyrr is awesome though, totally go check it out! So I've wanted to write this for a while. Then I watched Mad Max: Fury Road and was instantly struck by Max and Furiosa's dynamic, which I felt encapsulated what I was looking for. And then my porn grew some nuance, depth, and childhood trauma. So here, brain, I hope you're happy. 
> 
> I also feel obligated to note that I wrote this whole thing before remembering to go back and make sure she only has one arm. What a silly thing to miss! 
> 
> On a more serious note, this is just one woman’s response to rape. It certainly doesn’t encompass every survivor’s experience, and I’m not qualified to say whether it’s the best way to deal with it or not. It’s Furiosa’s way.

Furiosa hasn't had a cock in her since Immortan Joe tried to breed her and found her lacking.

She had no short line of War Boys asking, back before she was their god’s most prized fighter and thus too high in the ranks to fuck. Mostly, she answered those boys with disregard, then a fist to the face and a knee to the dick if her message wasn’t received. Unproductive sex wasn't encouraged at the Citadel, probably to keep the boys from getting distracted from their missions. Best that they never know anything but the desire to ascend to Valhalla.

And Furiosa certainly never felt the need for sex. For years and years after she was cast off to serve on a rig, she didn't touch herself except to bathe. And scrubbing down with a damp cloth doesn't get _her_ going. She still takes whore's baths, even now when the rations of water are more bountiful. She can tell by others’ faces when the smell gets too bad and something really must be done, and then she’ll get a bucket and clean more than just under her arms and between her legs.

But otherwise, it's habit to conserve water. Lead by example and all that, and it's not as if she needs anything more. It's what she hopes separates her from Joe, the decision to not take what she doesn't need and to live the same as anyone else. She’d seen Joe as only The Queens had, stripped of his armor and presence. He was no god.

Truth be told, she suspects she was probably too young to connect the physical sensations of sex to pleasure, even if Joe had cared a lick about making it good for her. Valhalla knows his cock wasn't anything to write home about. All she knew back then was that sex hurt, it burned like all hell, and it made her feel like she had to piss. Getting fucked against her will wasn't the worst thing to happen to her, not when it was the initiation for every healthy girl brought into the Citadel. It was an accomplishment, to rise above The Wretched into Joe’s view, a _compliment_.

Furiosa was perfectly fine. She didn't need sex, is all.

It's not until after she rips Joe's face off and storms, triumphant, back into her former prison that she touches herself for the first time.

Not right away, of course. There was much to be determined then, how to distribute the water fairly, not that Furiosa needed anyone to tell her that the old way of doing it was the stupidest fucking shit she'd ever seen, how to safely increase crop yields, how to cure more land of its disease, how to reverse decades-long indoctrination on young boys who've known only this their whole lives, and how to settle the whole bloody society.

She makes time for The Wives, who she refuses to call that in her head and never aloud. They're The Queens now, untouchable by choice because no man in their right mind will challenge the women who killed god. She sits with them, offers silent support when they weep for their lost allies. Every one of them misses Splendid, The Queens more than Furiosa. There’s a certain bond forged between them, an understanding and way of life that she’ll never fully grasp. But she'd recognized Angharad’s spirit, that desire to survive and be more than just a thing.

Furiosa mourns that she never got the chance to see what she had orchestrated come to fruition.

Surely if Angharad were here, she would be the one in charge. Furiosa wasn't meant to give orders. The only thing she'd really ever done was drive the rig and kill some old wanker. But this duty fell to her in Angharad's absence, like the shittiest fucking inheritance, and she'll be damned before she messes it up.

She sits with Capable more than the others. She wasn't blind to the clear affection between Capable and the War Boy, Lux. It's a bleeding shame that they didn't get the chance to love each other or share a profound bond or whatever it was that they were moving towards.

A lot of things that went down are a shame. Part of her regrets dragging the Vuvalini into her battle and getting them slaughtered. But the larger part of her knows that she would have been carrion rotting slowly in the desert without their aid, and she won’t dishonor their lives by questioning them now.

With all these cheerful fucking thoughts crowding around in her head, it's a wonder that Furiosa wasn't thinking about sex all that often. But the desperately needed change comes, slowly. The Citadel starts to thrive, to be The Green Place that she'd held onto so tightly in her mind for twenty-odd years. It becomes a bit of hope for lone wanderers and those desperate and needy. And it's not like Furiosa has more time on her hands now. Really, she's busier than ever. But her mind feels clearer and clearer.

She can nearly see redemption, sometimes, if she squints and tilts her head a little.

Once she spends less time on a rig and more time eating food and sleeping, that curious heat in her abdomen that makes her squeeze her thighs together starts to come around more often. She was the only female Imperator, but she wasn't bloody deaf or blind. Sex that wasn't breeding was banned, but Joe hadn’t said anything about jacking off. Just because it wasn't the sort of thing she went in for doesn't mean that no one else did. It was best not to be caught, for sure, everyone knows that. But sound bounces off rock walls really fucking well, not to mention how little privacy there's to be had on a war rig, and she's been on enough long, lonely trips to get an earful. And an eyeful.

Of course it doesn't work the same way for her as it did those boys, different mechanics and such, but if Furiosa can kill the damned Immortan, she can figure out how to jack off. It can't possibly be that complicated. 

It's more complicated than she thought. 

She’s doing her odd deep clean with a couple buckets of well water and a small metal bowl, dipping the cloth into the bowl to wet it, scrubbing off layers of dust and grime that run in muddy tracks over her skin, and swishing the reddish brown dirt off in the bowl. That she empties into an empty bucket, which will then be mixed with urine to irrigate the fields, and fills the bowl with clean water, repeating until the rag squeezes out clear water.

When she’s clean enough to start getting dirtied all over again, she lies on a clean sheet and trails the cloth in soft, exploratory motions over her shoulders, her collarbones, down between her breasts, shivering as a breeze wafts over her wet skin.

The barely-there brush of cloth feels good in a way she rarely experiences, in a world that has made her rough.

She abandons the wash rag and runs her hand over her body, calloused and peeling fingertips catching here and there. The sensations are both relaxing and energizing in a way that must be arousal. A now familiar warmth licks through her as she sweeps her palm up and down the outsides of her thighs, moving closer and closer to her cunt.

The sensitive skin of her inner thighs, the crease where her legs and hips meet, she feels something shivery rising up into her throat that could be discovery or exhilaration.

Her body has always been expedient for its usefulness, for what it could do, for the strength it contains. Yet this is a new purpose, not for any grand mission or lowly milk run. It’s just for her. For her leisure and gratification, not for anyone else. It’s strange to consider her body as anything but a machine within which her mind resides. Then again, Furiosa’s not by nature one for deep thought, another reason why she’s not built for leadership.

Her hand dips closer and closer to her cunt with every pass; she lets her legs fall open, a vulnerability never before granted. She scratches her nails lightly through the coarse hair between her hips and her toes curl in as she arches her back, shoulders pressing into cloth and hard ground. A tentative rub at her clit causes her entire body to lock up, something akin to a lightning strike in a sandstorm rushing through her.

It does still feel a bit like having to piss, but she’s intrigued enough to continue.

Emboldened, she massages more firmly, finding that clenching her abs and holding her breath heightens the feeling. She pants in unsteady, shuddering breaths as her body shakes, fingers slipping through wet slick and smearing on her thighs. Venturing further down, she slides a finger into her cunt.

And snatches it away immediately, the phantom sensation of Joe’s breath on the back of her neck and his prick in her sending nausea boiling in her stomach.

She’s stiff, immobile, impotent, a scared, helpless little girl all at once.

The momentary paralysis lifts in slow waves but the revulsion does not, and she crawls over to retch into the bucket, her last meal emerging with burning bile for what feels like an eternity. Finally, she lifts her head and grasps with a shaking hand for the remaining clean water. She rinses and spits and splashes her face. The slick fluid slowly dripping down her legs, what had felt like a victory, now feels like lying used on the floor as Joe straightens his trousers and leaves her, a treasure spent.

She scrubs at her cunt and legs with the cloth, heat rising in her face and under her eyes, the closest she’s been to tears since she was a girl. She is not that girl anymore. She should be stronger now. Furiosa lets her despair wash over her like the ocean waves that her mother spoke of, both before they were captured and in her final hours.

The ocean, her mother said, was vast and powerful, cool to the touch in the blazing heat. It could be kind and merciful, or it could be pitiless and unforgiving. Once, she said, she had wandered too far from shore and had been caught in a strong undercurrent. She tumbled through the water, waves breaking over her head whenever she fought her way to the surface, choking on briny water. Blessedly, for her mother and for Furiosa’s own existence, the waves dumped her back onto the sand, where she was able to claw her way out. Those currents, anger and anguish, fear and melancholy, buffet Furiosa, tossing her about. She feels a wounded cry in her throat.

It wants to get out. She will not let it.

And so she stays, prone, hunched over with the edges of a bucket digging into her forearm and wrist, wanting for air and feeling as though she may die.

Ridiculous, really, considering how many times she’s been truly close to death.

But the ocean abates, as it always does. As the tide recedes, taking the intensity from those feelings, she sucks in lungfuls of air until her chest burns, makes herself stand on trembling legs, sways, and falls as vertigo strikes her. She crashes down to the floor on her arse, black flickering at the edges of her blurred vision, curled there until the horizon stops spinning. She plants one foot, then the other, rises and resets her resolve.

She is Furiosa, a god slayer, and she will not let a dead man stop her from living. This was, she will admit, a setback. She is determined, though, to keep trying. 

Over several months, Furiosa experiments. Sometimes, it goes well, really spectacular actually. And sometimes she’s left trembling on the floor, trying to banish the rancid smell of Joe’s mouth crushing down on hers and the petrifying certainty that she’s tearing and bleeding.

Often, those aren’t mutually exclusive but rather successive.

For a while, she’s too afraid- and angry for being such a coward- to risk straying from her clit. Joe never cared whether his breeders were enjoying the fuck, that was never the point. She had been a toy to him, a means to an end. Of course, she’d suspected, as had the other women unfortunate enough to know him more closely, that his interests lay elsewhere, more along the lines of the War Boys than his prized treasures. That was fine by The Queens, it seemed. Somehow those notions made it just a little easier. At any rate, her clitoris wasn’t of interest to Joe and was thus mostly ignored, so there aren’t nearly as many unpleasant associations to fight past.

It’s easier.

She’ll never forget her first orgasm. It’s a very effective design quirk for encouraging the continuation of a species, to say the least. If it were always this good, maybe she would have given more thought to breeding. Then again, she is not a mother. Furiosa looks at the War Pups like she would a rig teetering at the cusp of flipping over, with alarm and unease. Except she can actually help with the rig.

All those musings are entirely obliterated when she discovers the non-existence of her refractory period. Surely someone must have noticed her acting strangely; she’s sure that she stumbled around loose-limbed and with a satisfied grin for hours afterward, even when the ringing in her ears and the fuzziness of the world had faded. 

Her cunt is an entirely different matter, but Furiosa was the best Imperator for a reason, that reason being a single-mindedness that lends itself equally well here. She likes to think of it as razing Joe’s psychological mark off of her and applies herself suitably to that campaign. Surprisingly, she prefers a stronger touch over a gentle one, though she doesn’t particularly care to think about whether that is just an inherent personality trait or a learned one.

It doesn’t much matter; she likes what she likes.

An unintended but certainly welcome side-effect of coming regularly is that she sleeps more quickly and deeply than before. Living on a war rig, not to mention ascending to Imperator, necessitates a certain ceaseless vigilance. Even now that she’s relatively safe, as safe as one can reasonably be in this utterly forsaken world, sleep is often elusive. So when jacking off means she can rest and wake with a sharper mind, well, she’s just being practical then.

What’s not so practical is her growing desire for sex. Actual sex, not her own hands but someone else’s. It doesn’t make sense. If she knows what she likes, why bother introducing another unstable variable? This works for her.

She doesn’t need anyone else. 

The trouble with ideas is that they can’t be killed. It keeps creeping through her mind, when she’s surveying the newly tilled soil for planting, when she’s settling matters with the assembly of persons chosen by the masses to make decisions, when a fucking wind whips over her the right way, and she can’t stop thinking about it.

She has no desire to start anything with the Boys who think she’s a god. They look at her like she’s their salvation and their mother all wrapped up in one, and she’s not going to stoke those Oedipus complexes any further. And maybe, just maybe, she has some minor trust issues. Nothing unprecedented, nothing that someone could begrudge her considering everything.

Either way, she’s not going to roll over and provide a target for someone she doesn’t know and wouldn’t trust with a blade to her throat. There’s no telling who might be looking to seize her position, and the only bloody people here she trusts don’t have cocks.

And that’s when Max walks back through the Citadel gates. 

Because he’s Max, she only finds out he’s returned when Cheedo spots him in the marketplace, haggling with one of the vendors. He’s let himself be dragged enthusiastically up Tower #3 to Furiosa’s room, which against her protests is somewhat larger and more defensible than the other rooms, being relatively close to a guard outpost and one of the lifts. She’d had to trade increased security measures in exchange for being allowed to live among the people rather than locked away in some high tower.

The War Boys had wanted to keep her safe in the Bio-dome, but she’d convinced them that space ought to be reserved for the children. Little progress could be made if she loomed over the rest of the citizens and forced them to live in her shadow. 

Max looks good, better than he did before. Which, to think of it, isn’t saying much.

He seems more settled, though, and no less reserved for it. He’s still absolutely mad, that’s a given out on the Road. The feral half-man that she’d shoved into the dirt still shines through his eyes, but it’s been pushed further down, hiding until pain inevitably forces it out again. He has a beard, too, short enough to suggest that he’s cut it but long enough to look like it’s consuming his face. 

“Max, it’s good to see you again.” The _I didn’t think I ever would_ goes unspoken. She strides over, pulling him in by the back of the neck to press their foreheads together. He grunts and gives her a small smile, just a slight lifting at the corners of his mouth. After a moment, she lets go and steps back. 

“What brings you around these parts?” she asks, turning aside to wave him into her room. He obliges and lowers himself to sit on her bedroll, leaning against the stone wall and getting dust everywhere. No matter, she’d been meaning to wash the canvas and maybe her clothes sometime. She slides down against the opposite wall, the particular shape of her room meaning that their feet almost touch, and waits for him to respond. 

When he does, his voice is gravelly from, she assumes, disuse. “Transport. I found some people looking for a Green Place.”

 _Ah_. Redemption. Or maybe more offerings laid at a greedy altar, one without end or possibility of penance. It’s hard to tell the difference. 

“How long are you staying?” Now that he’s here, she hopes it’s at least for a few days. He’s sure to have many stories to tell. 

He shrugs. “Not long.”

“A couple nights, then. I’ll ask one of the Boys to give your rig a tune-up. You can restock, maybe take a bath, get some sleep?” She pitches the end of the sentence up, tempting. 

“Hmm,” he says, which means yes. 

Later, Furiosa makes the trip to where he’s staying, a temporary room for any itinerants passing through, situated near the base of Tower #2. She’s pleased to see that he’s cleaner and his pack is fuller. They sit and catch up for most of the night. Furiosa tells him about the changes that she’s been able to make and the ones that are still awaiting approval as well as how The Queens are doing.

As expected, Max has been wandering, unintentionally getting involved in disputes, and saving people, though he never admits to the last. He’s still a mystery to her, but she can read between the lines in the limited details that he shares. Furiosa finds herself talking about her past, how she worked up the ranks to Imperator, her assignment to guard The Queens, and Angharad’s plan to escape. Max is quiet, yet she knows he’s listening.

She says, “I just wanted to get out, and now everyone’s looking to me for help. I wasn’t supposed to be in charge. I was just a weapon, a trigger to be pulled. I'm not meant to lead.”

Max is silent for a long time. Then he gestures in a wide, jerky circle and says, “You're doing it well.” 

The next day, Furiosa tracks him down to one of the workshops where he’s working below the undercarriage of his rig.

Toast, who’d insisted that she be the one to help, says, “He should be ready to go tomorrow.” Furiosa crouches by the rig and thumps on his boot. Max rolls out from underneath and tilts his head.

“Can I talk to you?” she asks.

After a glance at Toast to make sure she can get on without him, he stands and follows Furiosa all the way to her quarters, no questions asked. And see now, this is why she likes him, without even factoring in that he clearly has no desire to kill her and take over.

She just has to be tactful. 

Furiosa says, “Can I fuck you?” and immediately regrets everything.

Max freezes, shakes his head like maybe he didn't hear right.

“I- that didn’t come out the way I wanted.” She takes a second to collect her thoughts and tries again. “You can say no, and that would be fine. Either way, nothing will change." She wills him to believe her. Her feelings for him, they're not romantic. Furiosa decidedly isn't romantic, and she doesn't know if she's even capable of that. "I know there must be a reason you’re traveling alone, Valhalla knows we all have skeletons buried in the desert somewhere-” and she can say this sort of shit to him because he’s Max, and he understands that she doesn’t know how to be soft. He understands her. “But, I would like to have sex. With you.” 

A pause. 

Max says, “I’m leaving tomorrow,” like he’s worried she’ll ask him to stay. 

“I know. I told you, nothing’s going to change, no matter what you say. I’m not trying to keep you here. I think what you’re doing, saving people-” and here he shakes his head and steps back, but he’s _wrong_ , “-no, you do. You save people. And that’s good. I just need to borrow your dick for a few hours. And I suppose you can stay too.” she adds, hoping to lighten the mood.

He still looks unsure. She steps closer, careful and deliberate like she’s approaching a wild animal.

“I would trust you with a gun to my head. I don’t trust anyone else to do this.” 

Bemused, Max says, “High standards, those.” 

“They are, you know that.” 

She can tell he’s thinking hard. Finally, he nods. It’s not the most enthusiastic response, but he looks at her like he means it, like he trusts her too.

Furiosa goes down to the market to trade for a couple of large, smooth candles and an extra washcloth, something like nervousness thrumming through her.

With how little Max talks, she needs to see his face tonight. She’s not the only one with nightmares, only his strike during waking hours as well. She’ll need to be careful.

She makes a stop by one of the wells, drops the buckets at her room, and heads over to Tower #2. Outside his room, she bangs on the wall with a flat palm and waits for his answering grunt to push the hanging curtain aside and enter. Max is sorting his ammunition, so she takes a seat across from him and helps. They pack it all away, and she extends her hand to haul him to his feet.

“You can bring your stuff and stay the night,” she tells him.

His eyes raise to meet hers, and he jerks his head to the side before grabbing his rucksack. They silently walk, side-by-side, to her room, undress, and wash each other in the waning sunlight and flicker of candles melting into the floor.

It’s strange to realize that she’s actually taller than him, by a hair. Her memories of him are always larger-than-life, literally it seems. He’s gentle with her, which is fine for now, and she tries to be tender in response, though it takes effort. There’s no telling where he found it, but he has a bar of soap that he offers her. She works a lather through his hair, rubbing at his temples and massaging near the base of his skull until the tension in his body slips away.

It returns once they’re clean and she pulls him down onto her bed. She guides his hands to her breasts, and he palms them, breathing already going heavy. He’s so fucking tentative that it’s weird. She’s wrestled him to the ground before, put a gun to his head, and pulled the trigger. And he’s done the same to her, give or take a couple inches. So she knows him and his strength well enough to see his nervousness pushing aside growing desire.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” she says, pinning his hands under hers. He recoils and makes to back away, but she winds her legs around his back and holds him there, suspended inches above her, resisting the urge to grind down because she needs to make this clear.

“Are you okay? You need to stop?” she asks, and this is as important as any question she’s ever asked.

He shakes his head firmly, decisively.

“You want this?” she presses because she’s not going to steamroll over him to get what she wants, and there’s a monumental difference between allowing something and wanting it.

He nods, but she doesn’t let up until he says, “Yes, I want- I do,” his voice half an octave lower than usual. He says it like he's bracing to be hit, but that's more of a constant state of being with him. 

“Then stop fucking around. I’m not gonna break.”

The tension in him builds instead of dissipating, and she’s a second away from calling the whole thing off when he flips her over onto her stomach, gets an arm under her, and hauls her hips back until she’s unbalanced and trying to brace herself on her hand. With his free hand, he knocks her down onto her elbow, and she laughs, delighted.

 _T_ _his_ is what she wants.

He gropes her, exploring, from her breasts to her stomach, detouring around to grab her arse, kneading down to her calves, his touch rough and thorough. She lets herself be felt, encourages it even, pushing back towards him as much as she can, though he keeps distance between their bodies.

She _aches_ , empty and clenching around nothing, wanting.

He slides his hand down to her clit, and she squirms away, a bit too dry for direct contact. He reads her, and rubs her flanks soothingly, huffing out what could be a laugh at her disgruntled " _fuck you_.” When he sets her knees back on the ground and lowers to nuzzle the inside of her thigh, she sighs at the feel of his scruff against her bare skin. He buries his face between her legs, lapping in broad, exquisite strokes like she's the last drop of water for a hundred miles, dipping his tongue into her and flicking it against her clit.

Of course he'd be good at this; she should have known when she saw his bloody _mouth_.

She finds herself making the most embarrassing noises, low sighs and rumbling moans, caught between his tongue and lips and the ticklish brush of his beard that somehow only manages to make her dizzier. Once she's proper riding his face, he slides two fingers into her, smooth and easy as that, and licks at where she’s held open around them.

The part of her that clings to privacy, the part that's currently smothered under pleasure and sheer inability to give a flying fuck, wonders if anyone else can hear the slick, wet sounds of him screwing his fingers into her, unhurried and no less devastating for it. Her curtains aren't thick by any stretch of the imagination. Yet she can't muster up the brainpower to care.

Two fingers become three, and his pace speeds up, thumb circling her clit insistently as her muscles wind up tight. She chokes on air when he crooks his fingers shallowly, rough the way she does it herself, presses below her belly button with the flat of his other fist, then pushes it down and in right above her pelvic bone.

 _Oh_.

Pinned between his steady hands, she falls apart just like that, scrabbling at the floor and shaking head to toe.

Past the thudding of her heartbeat in her ears, she sighs as he carefully shifts her onto her back, tracing aimless patterns over her prickling skin, goosebumps rising in their wake. She comes back to earth, languidly stretching this way and that, savoring the ghost of aching muscles that are sure to make themselves known tomorrow.

“There you are,” Max says, the fondness in his eyes and tone burning through her like a brand.

She can’t help but reach for him, pulling him down to kiss him sloppily, and grinding her cunt against his dick, amused when this makes him suck in a quick breath. When she’s distracted him, she hooks her heel and sweeps his legs, following him down to the floor, knees spread broadly around his waist. He gapes at her and a giggle bursts out of him, a full-bodied thing, higher and merrier than his appearance and general demeanor would suggest.

It’s the first time she’s ever heard him laugh, and she tucks the sound away, memorizing it, not sure when or if she’ll hear it again. Valhalla, she hopes to hear it over and over. Such a genuinely good man shouldn’t be miserable all the time.

She grins back at him and mouths over his collarbones, biting a little as she goes. Then she lifts up, plants her hand on his shoulder and slowly sinks down onto his cock, swallowing his groan as it leaves his mouth.

He feels fucking fantastic, searing hot and stretching her wide, and she stops to catch her breath, sweating, thighs shivering with the effort of holding herself up.

Max just gazes up at her, hands coming up to steady her hips, supporting some of her weight until she can relax and open up, taking him all the way in. She starts to ride him, grinding in tight circles and rolling her hips, slow and rough. Max doesn't move until she's got into a rhythm, waits for her nod to start fucking up into her.

He snaps his hips up as she comes down, driving deeper with a broad palm at the base of her spine, and she’s so full that she imagines she can feel him in the back of her throat. They swap messy, open-mouthed kisses, eyes locked and breathing in the other’s air. He cups her face in one hand, thumb stroking along the ridge of her cheekbone, and she turns to press her lips against it.

She’s burning up, burning but not consumed.

When he reaches down to rub her clit, she tightens around him and he swears with startling creativity. It's the closest she's ever felt to another human being, and the intimacy of it goes straight to her head.

Time stretches out, and she's not sure if they've been locked together for minutes or hours. All she can do is revel in the heated pleasure winding through her, twisting with the feeling of it.

They pant wetly into each other's mouths, lips brushing. Something wild and possessive comes over her, and she dips her head to sink her teeth in where his shoulder meets his neck. Max locks up, relaxes, and shudders like an overheating engine block when she licks at what she imagines will be an impressive bruise. There. Something for him to remember her by, something to mark that she's been here.

Max looks at her indulgently, a little smug, like he knows exactly what just went through her head, so she does her best to knock that expression off his face, clenching her abs as she sinks down and draws up again and again and swiveling her hips to work him to orgasm. It's not long before he surges up, burying his face in her neck, and comes.

As his prick starts to soften and slip out, he slides down under her, kisses his way down her belly and over her hips, and brings her off with his hands and lovely, lovely mouth. Her thighs damn near clamp down on his head as she cries out.

They collapse in a heap, spent. He seems tempted to fall asleep down there, trapped happily under her thigh, but she rolls off and to her feet so she can take a piss and clean off a bit. Because she’s just that nice, she gives him a cursory wipe too before crouching down to blow out the candles. She shoves at him until he’s moved over, then curls up beside him, an arm thrown over his chest.

As she drifts off to sleep, she feels him breathing, strong and alive, and smiles.


End file.
